


breakwater

by erebones



Series: tides and fathoms [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: breakwater, n. A barrier built out into a body of water to protect a coast or harbor from the force of waves.





	breakwater

**Author's Note:**

> alex and I agreed to collaborate on some blowjob-themed pwp. they made smutty art. I...... wrote this. it's way more character study-ish than I meant it to be, but hopefully still enjoyable! thank u again alex for the collab!

Fjord is out of sorts. He hides it well—he’s used to hiding things about himself, Caleb thinks: histories and accents and swords and _feelings_ —but Caleb has come to know him better over the last week or two. He can see it in the edge to Fjord’s smile, the hitch of breath as he moves to speak and then withdraws when he remembers. They are no longer on the ship. He is no longer the captain. The responsibility he’d unwillingly shouldered for so long now feels like a phantom limb, a weight suddenly cut away and leaving him unbalanced.

The others don’t seem to notice, but Caleb is unsurprised. He knows what it’s like to step out of your own world, your own comfort zone, and look around to realize you’re back at square one. A journey of a thousand steps, and it’s only brought them round again to the start.

The Lavish Chateau welcomes them with open arms—or at least its mistress does. Jester is ecstatic, Nott is giddy with the prospect of being on dry land again, and Fjord… Fjord recedes into the background. A comfortable white noise that’s easy to ignore, like the sigh of waves on the beach. It’s a position Caleb once fought to keep, and now he’s on the outside looking in, as if through distorted glass, as Fjord quietly excuses himself from the dinner table and retreats to the stairs.

The dining area is lush and ribald at this hour but still classy and tasteful, adorned with beautiful people in elegant, occasionally revealing clothing, filled with the sounds and smells of all sorts of sensory delights. At the Lavish Chateau, sex is just one piece of the puzzle. It’s a veritable fairground of delicious foods, the sweet waft of subtle candles, the flash of skin and sparkle.

Caleb himself is on the verge of a sensory overload as he navigates the jungle, leaving his friends to continue celebrating. Another chapter closed in the story of the Might Nein. Except one particular character has trailed off the page from where he once stood at center stage, and Caleb feels his absence keenly.

He makes it as far as the top of the grand staircase and stops. Fjord is a notoriously private man, even now, after sharing a bed with Caleb on occasion when the lulls between their oceanic escapades allowed. Perhaps being walked in on at the end of a long day, largely spent blustering their way through the dockmaster’s good graces, is not the best time for a rendezvous.

As he’s contemplating this, a lithe figure brushes past him on the stair: an elven man carrying a silver pitcher, slightly shorter than himself, with rich dark skin and ropes of neatly-twined hair hanging down his back. Caleb mutters an instinctive _sorry_ and swallows the rest of it down as he man casts him a coy smile over his shoulder. He isn’t dressed _skimpily_ , exactly, but there’s something inherently seductive about the drape of his tunic and the soft, bare soles of his feet as he climbs the next flight to the third storey. Caleb’s fingers twitch in a quick _detect magic_ , but the spell sinks into the man’s back invisibly and the only thing he gets back is a small, crystalline blur of abjuration in the pearl affixed to his left ear. A simple protective charm of the sort he’s seen most of the Chateau’s employees wearing.

Caleb relaxes instinctively and starts up the stairs a healthy amount of space behind him. Just one of the workers, nothing to be alarmed over. It’s still strange to think that not everyone in his immediate vicinity has ill intent toward him or his friends. He summons Frumpkin to his shoulder and buries his fingers in the fur behind his ears. _All is well… we will find Fjord, and check in on him, and then we will go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day._

He gets as far as the landing. Ahead of him, the dark-skinned elf trails his fingers along the walls as though counting each recessed door. He passes Beau’s, and Caduceus’, and the room Caleb shares with Nott. And then stops. He raps gently on the door with his fingers and calls out something low and soft that Caleb can’t make out. The door opens, and he disappears inside.

Caleb feels as though Jester has cast one of her ice spells on him. His lungs go tight and cold like they’ve been filled with ice water and his feet seem to be fused to the soft carpet of the hallway. That was Fjord’s room. But _why?_ Is it an attack? An infiltration? A practical joke?

He wants to charge in and demand answers, but common sense stays his hand. Instead he leans against the wall and shuts his eyes. He’d spent a few minutes in Fjord’s room when they first arrived, intending to exchange some private words and perhaps something a little more intimate; but everyone was high-strung and giddy with their successful entry into the city, and it was impossible to get a moment alone. He’s grateful for that short time now as he envisions the narrow space between a desk and the bedframe and conjures Frumpkin into it.

The room is dim, but not dark, lit only by flickering candlelight. Frumpkin pads in silence to the end of the bed and peers around it, exposing the barest whisker to the room. From this vantage point he can see Fjord sitting at the other end of the bed’s foot, slumped forward in shirt and trousers and little else. His face is turned away, toward his guest—or his host?—who appears to be preparing a large bath with sprinkles of scented oil.

“For your sore muscles,” the elf is saying. His voice is a pleasant enough tenor, accented with something Caleb doesn’t recognize. No child of the Empire, certainly. The elf swings his long palette of hair over one shoulder and it dangles above the bath as he tips the pitcher over it, releasing a long stream of steaming water. The pitcher must be enchanted after all, because it pours and pours without stopping, even when its volume must surely have been exhausted.

“Thank you kindly,” Fjord says in that old familiar drawl. Caleb wonders if it’s habit, now. Wonders whether it comes more easily to him after months of regular use than the voice he was born with.

(It hurts a little, that Fjord has never told him about it. Caleb has had his suspicions for weeks, but decided to wait, to let Fjord broach the subject on his own terms. He’s still waiting.)

“Is there anything else I can assist you with?” the elf inquires as the long, steady pour begins to thin some time later. “Any… service I can provide?”

There is a marked hesitation. Then Fjord shakes his head and pushes himself to standing, one hand drifting to the nape of his neck. “Thank you, but I didn’t ask for… company. Just the bath.”

“I’m aware.” Caleb can’t see his face, but it sounds like the elf is smiling. “But you seem weary. And, forgive my boldness—but you seem _kind_. I have no pressing obligations. If you would care for companionship while you bathe, I am happy to provide it.”

Caleb likes to think of himself as a level-headed man. There is nothing at all about Fjord’s demeanor that alarms him, and regardless, it isn’t as if they’ve sworn oaths to each other—not of _that_ nature, anyway. Fjord is not promised to him, nor Caleb to Fjord. And yet the fury that surges through him is so sudden and unexpected that he finds himself moving across the hall anyway, dropping Frumpkin’s vision and flinging open the door without bothering to knock.

The scene before him is disorienting after seeing it from Frumpkin’s perspective. There is a great deal more space between the elf and Fjord than he had imagined, as well as an entire copper tub filled with steaming water. Fjord looks to him with startlement melting quickly to relief, and Caleb’s thorny heart subsides.

“Forgive me,” he chokes out in some semblance of good manners. “It wasn’t my intention to interrupt—”

“You weren’t interrupting,” Fjord says quickly. He moves to the door, toward _Caleb_ , and for a moment seems to reach for him before his extended hand finds purchase instead on the edge of the open door. “Thank you for the bath.” He directs this toward the elf, who has replaced his soft and inviting expression with blank politeness. “That will be all.”

“You are most welcome.” With a short, stiff bow in Fjord’s direction, the elf makes an elegant exit in spite of Caleb taking up more than half the doorway.

As soon as they’re alone, Fjord withdraws further into the room, jerking his head at Caleb in a clumsy _come hither_. He turns his back as Caleb shuts the door and pulls his shirt over his head, graceless and rawboned and beautiful. “Sorry,” Fjord says before Caleb can think past the sweet, shallow divots flanking his sacrum, “I’m afraid I’m not good company at the moment.”

“I wasn’t looking for _good company_.” Caleb finds the lock and turns it before approaching the tub. It’s sizeable indeed—worth a small fortune, most like—and seems like it would easily fit two average-sized people without much trouble. Whatever oils were added lend it a subtle aroma, something soft and herbal. He rests one hand on the rim and trails the fingers of the other through the water. “I was looking for _you_.”

Fjord glances at him quickly. He is bare-chested, now, his trousers halfway open and belt slumped loosely around his hips. In the low light Caleb can make out the trail of dark hair that is drawn from the hair on his chest down the center of his belly to his smallclothes, where it thickens again and growls curly. “For me?”

“I wanted to see if you were all right.” Caleb meets his eyes rather than ogle his bare chest, though it takes more than a modicum of effort. “After… well, after everything, but today especially. It was not an easy task, getting us to harbor.”

Fjord’s stern mouth curls up at one corner. “It wouldn’t have been possible without your silver tongue, Widogast.”

Caleb shrugs. “Group effort.”

“Yeah.” Fjord rubs his chin, producing a slightly raspy noise. He hasn’t shaved in several days, and the shadow on his jaw is starting to thicken into something like a beard. It’s… quite attractive. “Sure it was.”

“If you would rather I left,” Caleb begins, unsure, but Fjord cuts him off with a grunt.

“No. Please—I mean, if you’d like to, I would… appreciate you stayin’.” For a moment he hovers there, staring at Caleb like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle. Then with a little huff, like he’s throwing caution to the wind, Fjord closes the gap between them and pulls Caleb bodily, roughly, into his arms.

“Oh,” Caleb says, almost on instinct, like the syllable was forced out of him by the strength of Fjord’s embrace. He cups the back of Fjord’s shorn head in one hand and digs his fingers into his back with the other, feeling warm, scarred flesh, the heave of his diaphragm like a deck pitching unsteadily beneath their feet. He buries a kiss against Fjord’s shoulder and holds him tightly. “Fjord… are you sure you’re all right?”

There’s a long, painful pause before Fjord mutters, “I think I haven’t been _all right_ in a while.”

Just because Caleb had been anticipating it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to hear. The knife of Fjord’s despair twists all the deeper because Caleb _recognizes_ it, sees the reflection of his younger self in Fjord’s aching heart. The guilt they bear is different, perhaps, but the mark of it on the soul is much the same, and Caleb doesn’t know how to make it stop hurting.

Time passes slow, like the pouring of molasses, but each second ticks by in Caleb’s head, marked and metered in perfect order. When Fjord’s toughened hide begins to thaw and soften, Caleb strokes the back of his head and pulls away.

“Bath,” he says simply, in answer to the bald confusion on Fjord’s face. He reaches up and smooths the furrow between his brows with a thumb. “The water won’t stay hot forever.”

“Pretty sure it’s enchanted,” Fjord says, but he shucks off his trousers and smallclothes to the floor obediently. He’s so soft and vulnerable without his armor, Caleb thinks. A crab without its shell. Fjord is not a small man, yet tonight it feels as though he could fit in the palm of Caleb’s hand: head bowed, hands slack and soft at his sides, new scars enfolding the tender meat of chest and belly and thighs.

“Get in,” Caleb says gently, when it becomes apparently that Fjord is waiting for some kind of signal.

With care, Fjord steps slowly into the bath. “Will you join me?”

“If you’d like.” Caleb shrugs out of his coat and scarf and hangs them on the back of the desk chair. He crouches to remove his boots as Fjord settles, water slopping a little over the sides to dapple the hardwood floor. “Go ahead and relax, I’ll be there shortly.”

Fjord hums low in his chest and tips his head back against the rim of the tub. “You sound like you’re planning something.”

“Planning? Hm.” Caleb shrugs out of his shirt and undoes his belt. “No, this is very off the cuff.” His trousers fall with a little _clink_ from the buckle and he approaches the tub, running his hands through Fjord’s damp hair. Fjord sighs and turns his head into the contact. “If anything discomfits you or strikes a nerve, you must tell me, ja?”

“All right.” Still heavy-lidded, Fjord’s eyes blink up at him, rimmed in yellow glister from the oblique candlelight. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Caleb says, and gets into the tub.

It’s a bit of a snug fit, but Caleb is able to settle on his knees between Fjord’s thighs without too much maneuvering. There is no soap or linens, but the water itself seems to lather under his touch as he rubs wet hands over Fjord’s arms and chest, and rinse away clean. With patient fingers, Caleb cleans away the rime of salt from Fjord’s skin in slow passes, massaging away the aches of travel. He is not perfunctory, but nor is he particularly seductive—only _thorough_ , treating each inch of skin with the same level of attention. Fjord squirms a bit, here and there, but always subsides at a word from Caleb.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises when Fjord is clean and melted into the side of the tub like so much errant seafoam. He takes Fjord’s scarred hand in his own and anoints the knuckles with a kiss. “My beautiful man.”

“Cay,” Fjord mumbles, nose wrinkled in protest.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t—I’m not…”

“Would you rather I not lay claim to you?” he asks with as much indifference as he can muster. The thorns are beginning to curl alive again, twining through his ribs like mushrooms thriving on decay, but it is not his right—he has no _right_ —

“No,” Fjord murmurs. His eyes blink open again, glowing golden in the dark. Light reflects off the surface of the water in thin drops and casts itself like a soft and lacey net over Fjord’s skin, inviting the touch of Caleb’s hands. “I just don’t know if _beautiful_ is the word I would choose.”

“Of course it isn’t. We all think we’re hideous creatures, don’t we? That we can never be loved by anyone?” He only stumbles over that word in his own mind after the fact—on his lips, _love_ tastes just and holy, tastes like the unobscured truth. His heart slams fiercely against his tattered ribcage as his thumb drifts against Fjord’s jaw. “I won’t try to convince you of anything, but you have the right to know what I think of you, Fjord.”

Fjord turns his head a little and kisses the tender curl of Caleb’s palm. “And what do you think of me?”

_Braveheart. Like a lion, stern and golden and glorious. Dearest one. Warrior poet, tender and loyal, so full of terror and wild, untamed courage._

“Lover,” Caleb stammers aloud, because the rest is too much for him to say out loud. He feels the brush of Fjord’s lashes against his thumb and shuts his eyes. “Captain.”

“Not anymore,” Fjord begins, but his hesitation drops away at the shake of Caleb’s head.

“ _My_ Captain, then. My lover. My friend.” He steadies himself with a long, slow inhale and opens his eyes again. Fjord is looking at him so tenderly, so small and fragile and adoring, that Caleb can hardly breathe.

“Caleb.”

Though there’s hardly any space between them, Fjord sits up to close the negligible gap. His hands are large and warm against Caleb’s cheeks, softened by water, as he draws him close and kisses him. Just once, shallow and slow. Caleb sighs when it’s over and nestles their foreheads together over the rising steam.

“Sometimes,” Fjord whispers, “it feels like we’ve only just begun. There’s so far left to travel, so much left to do. What sort of promise can I make to you when nothing is certain?”

“I don’t want a promise.” Caleb takes hold of his chin and levels the pitch of his gaze. “What we have is enough.”

Fjord’s mouth curves unhappily. “And what if I want more? What if I want to give you the world?”

Caleb quirks a smile. “Will you raise the oceans for me, Favored One? Destroy whole fleets of ships for me?”

“If you asked,” Fjord replies without the slightest hesitation. His face is deadly serious, but his hands on Caleb’s waist beneath the water are soft as a summer morning. “If you asked me to, yes. But I don’t think you will.”

The sudden thread of tension snaps. When Caleb presses a kiss to the scar on Fjord’s brow, he feels the heat between them start to coalesce, blending by necessity into something else. Something raw and new.

“That’s a terrifying amount of power at my beck and call,” Caleb whispers.

“Given freely.” Fjord nuzzles against his cheek, and the prick of his claws against Caleb’s hips is like a little electric shock beneath the water. “ _That_ I can promise. I am yours.”

With a soft whine of need, Caleb digs his fingers into Fjord’s hair and pulls his head back for a kiss. Fjord doesn’t resist. His mouth opens warm and readily, tongue soft against Caleb’s as he holds him in place by his hair. The ache in Caleb’s chest flows south like snowmelt and lights a fire in his pelvis. _I am yours_. An incredibly delicate charge, and Caleb is determined to treat it with the gravity and grace it deserves.

“Please,” Fjord whimpers as Caleb’s grip tightens. “Let me serve you.”

“Is that what you desire?” Caleb asks, leaving off marking Fjord’s throat to stare him in the face.

Fjord swallows. “More than anything.” His golden eyes are little more than chips of glowing filament, swallowed by the hungry black of his pupils. _Consume_ , Caleb thinks. _So be it._

“Out of the bath,” he orders, trembling a little. He gets shakily to his feet and stands, dripping, on the cold floor.

It’s the work of a moment and a gesture to light the cold hearth, and immediately the glow of the flames illuminates the scene before him like a masterwork. Fjord’s wet skin is bared all at once as he climbs out of the water, gleaming like rivulets of gold and silver, hair dripping chips of diamond to bead like a coronation shawl around his shoulders. The hair on his chest and belly has darkened and presses flat to his body everywhere but his groin—there the thatch of curls springs thickly around his cock, which seems to firm and plump before Caleb’s very eyes. Fjord meets his gaze only once; whatever he sees there may as well have been a command spoken aloud. He drops to his knees without a sound, still wet and shivering a little despite the fire, and sinks back onto his heels in submission.

Caleb steps forward once, twice, and snaps his fingers. The water is whisked from their skin in a heartbeat and Fjord’s nostrils flare at the odd sensation. “Kiss me,” he says, transfixed by the glint of silver in Fjord’s hair.

Half of him expects Fjord to resist the order, or question it, but the energy they’ve conjured together in the bath holds true. Fjord leans toward him and kisses the jut of his hip bone. Just once. Then pauses there, breath puffing warmly against Caleb’s skin, as if waiting for judgement.

“Good boy,” Caleb murmurs, and notes the twitch of Fjord’s ears against his skull. He reaches down to stroke the tip of one. Fjord gasps softly and holds very still. “Is this all right?”

“Yes.” Fjord’s voice is so soft that he can hardly make it out, but Caleb swears the word was devoid of his usual drawl. Skin aflame, he moves his hand to the back of Fjord’s head and gives it a gentle nudge.

“More. I want your mouth.”

“My teeth,” Fjord begins, even as he moves to run his lips over Caleb’s cockhead. Still mostly soft, the feeling of Fjord’s stubble is enough to take Caleb’s breath away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Caleb hums. “I suppose you’d better be careful then, hmm?”

For answer, Fjord takes Caleb’s half-hard prick into his mouth entirely. His hands stay loose at his sides, at first, but as Caleb finds the high plateau of his arousal, they rise to paw at his hips, claws scoring the skin lightly. Caleb tugs on an ear for answer and gets a low groan as Fjord shoves deeper. The cusp of his throat closes around him and then his nose is there against Caleb’s pelvic bone, dark stubble meeting the pale auburn curls adorning Caleb’s belly and groin. Fjord holds him there for a moment or two and then withdraws, coughing, lapping him up like a starving man at a feast.

“Hold,” Caleb says, and Fjord holds, the head of his cock tickling the roof of his mouth. Fjord looks up at him through dark, smudged lashes, and waits. “Good,” Caleb whispers. He cradles Fjord’s jaw in one hand, thumbing through the saliva that’s begun to drip down his chin. “Why don’t you go ahead and lay on the bed. No reason for you to be uncomfortable while I fuck your throat.”

Fjord moans and suckles at the tip even as Caleb pushes him away. If there was ever a doubt in his mind that Fjord was less than fully invested in the proceedings, it vanishes at the sight of his cock. It juts proudly from between his thighs, beaded with precum even though he’s hardly touched it since the evening began. Caleb follows the shape of it with his eyes as Fjord retreats to the bed, sprawling on his back like a lazy cat, arms spread against the bedding. His diaphragm lifts and subsides with each frenetic breath as he watches Caleb draw near.

“Is this,” Caleb begins, hesitating slightly with one hand to Fjord’s thigh. A chink revealed in this precarious armor he’s erected for himself. “What you want?”

“Yes,” Fjord breathes, ragged and worn and definitely his own voice. “Please.”

Permission granted, Caleb crawls up the length of his body, bestowing a kiss to his forehead before settling his thighs to either side of Fjord’s shoulders. It’s a bit of a stretch, but worth it for the way Fjord leans up to meet him, running pursed lips along the underside of his cock. He takes a steadying breath and grips the headboard in one hand, Fjord’s variegated hair in the other. “Hold your breath,” he orders, and presses inside.

The angle is slightly different, but Fjord’s eagerness remains the same. His tongue is soft and slightly textured, and the ridges at the roof of his mouth feel amazing against the head of Caleb’s cock as he slides in and rocks gently back and forth. But Fjord is more impatient than he realized—suddenly there are fingers digging into his backside and he is drawn in, in, past the ring of his gag reflex and down into his throat. Fjord meets his gaze, eyes watering, and swallows around him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Caleb bites out, fingers tightening reflexively in Fjord’s hair. The water in Fjord’s eyes spills over and trails down his cheeks as Caleb fucks into his throat, counting the seconds before withdrawing to let him gasp for breath. “This is what you want, _Schatz?_ You want me to have you like this?”

Fjord’s groan as he presses back inside is all the answer he needs. He picks up the pace as sweat beads along his spine and under his arms, as his heart threatens to race straight out of his chest. Fjord is so pliant beneath him—his jaw loose and lax to give him complete access, eyes half-closed, hands weighing heavy on Caleb’s spread thighs as he gives over complete control. He waits patiently to be given the chance to breathe, and hardly chokes at all until the very end when Caleb wrenches his hair and doubles over, painting his tongue with spend.

“Easy,” Caleb soothes, wiping saliva and cum from Fjord’s chin with the edge of the sheet. “Breathe, love, I have you.” He bends and kisses Fjord’s cheek, his swollen mouth. Fjord kisses back clumsily, claws curling soft into the tender skin of Caleb’s flanks.

“Cay,” he croaks when the kiss breaks. His temples are still streaked with tears, but the smile that touches his lips is calm and self-satisfied.

“All right?” Caleb asks. He shuffles back a little, taking some of the weight off Fjord’s chest, and cradles his face between his palms, too anxious to let go completely. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“A little,” Fjord whispers, “but I wanted it. I needed… to let you be in control for a little while.”

Caleb recalls the unforgiving deck beneath his knees and the cool, delicious ache of Fjord’s fingers in his mouth, and thinks he has an inkling of understanding. He bends down and kisses Fjord’s face: his brow, his cheeks, his stubbled chin. His throat. The tender hollow above his collarbones. Fjord’s warm hands spread over his back and upper arms, holding him close.

“What about…” Caleb reaches down, between their bodies, and startles when his hand meets with Fjord’s softened cock and the slick smears of his seed on his belly. “Fjord?”

Fjord shrugs, ears folded close to his head in embarrassment. “Like I said,” he rasps. “I wanted it.”

“Without even touching yourself?”

Fjord shakes his head. Either he’s too embarrassed to elaborate, or his throat really is bothering him, because he doesn’t make an effort to justify himself. Equal parts impressed and overwhelmed, Caleb shuffles to the side and pulls him into his arms.

“You were so good for me,” he whispers into his hair, stroking the downy skin at the nape of his neck. “Such a good boy, Fjord.”

Fjord makes a soft noise in his throat, almost a mewl, and burrows closer. Though he’s larger in frame than Caleb, Caleb feels a surge of protectiveness over him—it feels only natural to plant soft kisses to his temple and stroke his scarred back until the last of the tension unspools from him and disappears.

“Sleep,” Caleb orders softly. “You’ve earned it tenfold, my darling.”

Fjord spreads one hand against the center of Caleb’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs, claws turning inward to scritch lightly at his skin. “I…”

“You don’t have to explain.” Caleb covers Fjord’s hand with his own. “Whatever you need. _Whenever_ you need.”

Fjord twitches, seems like he wants to say more—but whatever headspace he’d retreated into while Caleb held sway over him seems to have put down roots that aren’t so easily torn out, and he grows still. In Caleb’s chest, the thorns shed themselves for flowers that turn and bloom in the heat of Fjord’s nearness like it’s the heat of the sun. Casting no shadow, lighting no flame. _I love him_ , Caleb thinks to himself with something like resignation—but the flowers won’t let him regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> The [beautiful art](https://twitter.com/nsfwalexdoodle/status/1084264043668537348) is by the fantastic @nsfwalexdoodle on twitter! Thanks for putting the idea in my brain, darling!
> 
> Edit: Oh my gosh I have more art!!!! A MILLION thank yous to the lovely [Queen Shadenfreude](https://twitter.com/qschadenfreude/status/1084973649205948417) for the art of Caleb ❤❤❤


End file.
